The Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Plans | Page 3

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This etext was prepared by David Brannan of Woodbridge, Virginia.

The Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Plans By Sir Arthur Conan
Doyle
In the third week of November, in the year 1895, a dense yellow fog
settled down upon London. From the Monday to the Thursday I doubt
whether it was ever possible from our windows in Baker Street to see
the loom of the opposite houses. The first day Holmes had spent in
cross-indexing his huge book of references. The second and third had
been patiently occupied upon a subject which he hand recently made
his hobby--the music of the Middle Ages. But when, for the fourth time,
after pushing back our chairs from breakfast we saw the greasy, heavy
brown swirl still drifting past us and condensing in oily drops upon the
window- panes, my comrade's impatient and active nature could endure
this drab existence no longer. He paced restlessly about our sitting-
room in a fever of suppressed energy, biting his nails, tapping the
furniture, and chafing against inaction.
"Nothing of interest in the paper, Watson?" he said.
I was aware that by anything of interest, Holmes meant anything of
criminal interest. There was the news of a revolution, of a possible war,
and of an impending change of government; but these did not come
within the horizon of my companion. I could see nothing recorded in
the shape of crime which was not commonplace and futile. Holmes

groaned and resumed his restless meanderings.
"The London criminal is certainly a dull fellow," said he in the
querulous voice of the sportsman whose game has failed him. "Look
out this window, Watson. See how the figures loom up, are dimly seen,
and then blend once more into the cloud-bank. The thief or the
murderer could roam London on such a day as the tiger does the jungle,
unseen until he pounces, and then evident only to his victim."
"There have," said I, "been numerous petty thefts."
Holmes snorted his contempt.
"This great and sombre stage is set for something more worthy than
that," said he. "It is fortunate for this community that I am not a
criminal."
"It is, indeed!" said I heartily.
"Suppose that I were Brooks or Woodhouse, or any of the fifty men
who have good reason for taking my life, how long could I survive
against my own pursuit? A summons, a bogus appointment, and all
would be over. It is well they don't have days of fog in the Latin
countries--the countries of assassination. By Jove! here comes
something at last to break our dead monotony."
It was the maid with a telegram. Holmes tore it open and burst out
laughing.
"Well, well! What